


The Games We Play

by forsaken corruption (Demixian)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, frenemies to lovers, mutual emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demixian/pseuds/forsaken%20corruption
Summary: Over the course of many years of marriage and remarriage, Peter and his on-and-off husband, Jonah -- better known by the latest of his many pseudonyms, Elias -- have developed several little games to spice things ups. Their favourite of these involves an elaborate version of Hide and Seek, a sort of cat-and-mouse act where Elias tries to find an increasingly elusive Peter with his supernatural sight.When Elias throws an impromptu dinner party, they begin to rope others into their strange, sadistic mind games.The chronicle of Peter and Jonah's tempestuous love life, which mostly consists of mutual emotional torture, starting in the 80s and leading right up until the events of Season 4.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, LonelyEyes - Relationship, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this started out as a silly idea about Lonelyeyes taking sadistic joy in emotionally manipulating each other, partially based off the play Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? Content warnings will likely change as we progress but nothing's gonna get too heavy, this is mostly gonna be a 'haha look at the horrible monster men torture each other' kind of fic. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1987\. One lonely night, Peter encounters an eccentric stranger who offers to get him dinner.
> 
> CW: Canon-typical Supernatural Violence. Also, this chapter contains Polari, an old English slang from the 20th century used predominantly by the gay community in London.

The warm symphony of reverberating drums, shimmering synthesisers and shining electric guitar licks thrummed waspishly from within the leathery confines of the great building, whose neon glow stretched out just to the toes of Peter’s rounded loafers. The warmth threatened to brush the tip of his nose, but he didn’t let it. It was ten times more tantalising to observe it all from the comfort of the cold, the chill of his remoteness.

To his right, a door flung open, casting the previously gauzed neon light to spill out onto the rain-slicked tarmac. It breached the fine border Peter had established between the darkness and the light and threw its wretched glow across his face, causing him to recoil and stumble back into shadow. A young man, dressed in nothing but a pair of frayed leather shorts and black fishnet stretched across his pale chest, staggered out from the flood of acid green and fell upon his knees on the tarmac.

Peter narrowed his grey eyes at the man, his lip curling into a sneer. The man was laughing, rolling onto his back now, unbothered by the puddle that resembled radioactive waste as it reflected the light from inside the club. Peter could detect the faintest bitterness in the man’s laugh, the slightest trace of _loneliness_. It was meagre, to be sure — everyone in this part of town had at least a trace. But it wasn’t the residents’ loneliness that drew Peter here. Quite the opposite. After all, what’s the fun in leeching off everyone else, when there is plenty of loneliness to be felt by oneself. And in such a place as this, it’s hard not to feel wonderfully left out, excluded. Soho always had been rather a tight-knit community.

But this man, this waif, had ruined all the fun. He was looking at Peter now, an idiotic smile stretched wonkily across his face.

“Trolling for a spot of trade, sailor?”

Peter had hoped he was obscured by the Darkness, but it seemed that she wasn’t feeling charitable tonight. The man’s large, brown eyes were fixed on Peter, face contorted in mockery.

“I can varda your ogling a mile off,” said the man, lips barely forming the words he meant to speak, “I’ve got bona orbs, me. I’ve got your number.”

Perhaps the biggest downside of this street was the friendliness of the locals. Peter had to map his route in advance if he was to avoid the hordes of touchy-feely Sohocialites on his way to the clubs. But it was so worth it, when he got it right. He could soak for hours in that serene remoteness from all the amalgamating love and closeness that lay within. But if all of that was to be tainted with this pest’s silly little games, Peter would have to resort to a lighter snack.

Just as he advanced into the wash of shifting light, a gaggle of equally inebriated and eccentrically dressed clubbers tumbled out from the open exit and thronged around the young man. They, too, were laughing and falling about, their intolerable camaraderie sending a shiver of disgust down Peter’s spine.

“What’re you doing in that puddle, ducky?” cackled one of the others, whose teased blonde hair resembled a lion’s mane. “Oh, your clobber’s all wet, you goose.”

Another of the group, this one studded with rings all over, admired himself briefly in the glistening asphalt. “Pauline’s had a barney with that auntie she picked up. We’ll have to scarper.”

The man was helped to his feet as the others began moving down the alley, away from Peter and away from the club. There went his snack, Peter thought, and, along with it, the remainder of his patience with tonight’s festivities.

He was turning to leave when he spotted a pair of eyes in the shadows. Two impossible, ice-blue rings piercing though the dark, staring intensely into Peter. The stare did not pass through him, not even as he began to retreat into the Lonely; those disembodied eyes kept their hold of him, dragging him through the fog and jerkily back to the alley.

“Leave me _alone_ ,” Peter hissed, squinting back at the gazing eyes and trying to discern a face belonging to them.

He needn’t have bothered, as a figure stepped out from the total obscurity of the shadow into the residual light emanating from the club.

The old man attached to the eyes stood about three quarters of Peter’s height, silvering hair in an old-fashioned shag combed to one side. A carefully groomed chevron moustache and many grooves, permanently etched into the bridge between a set of bushy, feathered eyebrows, betrayed a stern temperament that was somewhat offset by the extravagance of the man’s dress; a gold, oval pendant resembling an eye drooped from one of his ears, its bottom corner brushing the shoulder of a bright, patterned shirt meticulously unbuttoned at the top. He slipped both hands in the pockets of his dark, flared trousers, which were entirely spotless despite the mud and rainwater that flecked everyone else’s heels that night.

“Forgive me,” said the old man, not an ounce of remorse in his tone. “I like to look.”

“I’m not interested in your _trade_ ,” Peter spat, though he could sense already that this man was different. This was not some young chancer out on the lash, making mockery of older men like himself who dare wonder their sacred streets. “And I don’t like to be looked at.”

“Oho,” the old man tittered, “you _really_ shouldn’t have said that. I can’t possibly resist, now.”

That was it, Peter thought. He summoned the mists of the Forsaken to his side, calling for them to devour this thing before it caused him any more trouble. But, just as before, the old man’s gaze tore through the fog and melted it around them ’til it sank back into its own realm.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” the old man said quietly.

Peter peered down his nose at what he could now confirm was another like him. Though, of course, this one was nothing like him at all. “What’ll you do, exactly? _Ogle_ me to death?”

“Gracious,” said the old man, raising a hand to his chest, “wherever have you picked up language like _that?”_

The old man then turned his head at last to stare down the alley, where the young man from before had remained to fumble with the laces of his boots. Peter, following his gaze, felt a pang of hunger as he sensed the young man’s momentary loneliness. He couldn’t Know like his - ugh - _associate_ here, but he could _feel_ the man’s latent fear mounting. Fear of abandonment, fear of falling behind, fear of being left alone to the night. Yes, the Dark had worked her way in there as she often did, but Peter could allow it if it meant a last gasp of sustenance before he retired for the night.

“Would you mind?” The old man’s voice came from much closer now. Peter lurched away, scowling. He was gesturing vaguely to the man, narrowed eyes alight with fervent hunger. “If I… Fattened the goose, so to speak?”

Peter glared at him in bemusement.

The old man didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped out of the shadow and sauntered down the alley toward the young man, who glanced up at the sound of footsteps and cackled at the sight of him. The mix of streetlight and shadow cast half his face in darkness and the words between the two were indistinct, but Peter could just about make out the younger man’s expression as the encounter progressed. The skin around his eyes, once crinkled with intoxicated joy, twisted with confusion, then offense, then abject fear. His head began to twitch, eyes stretched wide with child-like horror and welling with tears, brow furrowed and curled down in pained concentration. Hot breath came out in tufts of illuminated fog from his tightened lips. Just as it seemed the young man might burst from the tension, he collapsed to the floor in a fit of sobs, spine curved in anguish so that every individual vertebrae jutted out under the taut, pale skin.

Peter leant forward involuntarily, gazing in awe at the little vignette the scene had created. Further down the street, a streetlamp cast down a sort of spotlight onto the two, affecting the illusion of a stage performance.

The old man smoothed the hair on his crown and wiped his chin before turning around to look back at Peter. They stood quite still for a moment, eyes locked, as the feeble sound of the young man’s weeping rose up through the air.

“He’s all yours,” the old man mouthed.

Already out of the shadow now, Peter crept, step-by-step, toward the two. All the while, the old man stayed transfixed on him, eyes softly glowing from their cold blue irises.

As Peter drew closer, he could feel the delirious chill of the young man’s unhappiness seeping into him. It was ten times stronger than it had been before, though there was a strange aftertaste, like smudged rubber. It was as if, through amplification, it had been diluted.

He glanced up at the old man coldly. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“N’oh,” the old man cooed. “But I worked so _hard_ on this one. Picky eater?”

The young man began to stir and the old man kicked him, sending the thing back into the recovery position.

“I don’t much like leftovers,” said Peter. “Unlike your Eye, I don’t make a habit of leeching off other’s spoils.”

The old man scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Lukas. This one was long gone to the Buried.” He nudged the young man with his shoe, then bent down to his level, craning his neck to get a look at his agonised face. “Isn’t that right, duck?”

“I was only thinking about it,” said Peter. “As you might’ve guessed, I prefer not to fraternise with the individuals too much.”

“Well, in that case,” the old man said, standing, “finder’s keepers.” He flashed a sickly smile at Peter before extending a hand. “James Wright. Of the Magnus Institute. You’ll have to excuse me for not introducing myself sooner, only I didn’t want to let your dinner get away from you.”

Peter sniffed. “Peter Lukas. But I suppose you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, indeed,” James replied, returning the unshaken hand to its pocket. “I’m a family friend.”

Peter winced at the thought.

“Will you walk with me a while?”

He frowned and raised an eyebrow. “My mother always told me not to go off with strangers."

“Or, indeed, anyone, I suppose.” James chuckled at himself. “But I’m not a stranger, am I? I’d certainly hesitate to align myself with that lot, in any case. My lot and their lot never have gotten on very well.”

Peter narrowed his eyes down at the grinning little old man, pursing his lips with what he hoped was convincingly menacing contempt. “I’d rather be left alone.”

  
“Of course, of course.” James shook his head. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Peter lingered in place for a moment, though he couldn’t say why, before breezing past James and turning the corner onto the street. He walked a few paces before he stopped and turned to look behind him, where he saw James Wright shadowing his every move.

  
“Excuse me,” said Peter, turning all the way around to face the man with a stern expression. “What part of ‘leave me alone’ did you not understand?”

“Oh, I assure you, I understood every word,” said James. “That’s sort of my thing, after all.”

“Then understand this,” Peter leant forward, poising his lips for perfect enunciation, “ _bugger off._ ”

“Really, now,” said James, taking a step toward him and tapping a finger to Peter’s snarled lips. “There’s no need for that.”

Peter grabbed James’ wrist, realising at once how clammy his own hands were despite having been tucked away in his deep pockets. James’ eyes went dark, and suddenly a strange queasiness came over Peter and he dropped the hand holding him.

“I said,” James breathed, his tone less chipper now as he glared into Peter just as he had before, “don’t _let me_ stop you. I never said I wouldn’t try.”

Peter held fast in his returning gaze, every corner of his mind guarding itself against James’ probing. They stood fixed in place for a long while, trapped in a silent battle that culminated in mist pooling around their ankles and James’ eyes illuminating to their most intense glare. They didn’t know it, being so wrapped up in the other’s soul-sucking stare, but several passers-by stopped to look, fell short of comprehending the situation, and awkwardly stumbled off on their way before the pair relented.

James was the first to break, clutching his head and shuffling away in a dizzy. Peter fluffed the lapel of his parka as he sank back slowly into the rewarding comfort of the Forsaken. As the fog engulfed him, he saw James turn and grin in his direction.

“Same again next week?”

Peter smiled back and nodded.


End file.
